Myra

Chapter II - Sea Goats Returning!

"Trust in yourself, Rowena," Myra whispered to the wind. She held her hood low, careful to conceal the scar along her cheek. Her efforts would do little to veil her from those who knew her face, but her brand was one of many among the peddlers and beggars of the market.

She allowed the lively chaos of the Klerenmark to swallow her. Market stalls of all colors flapped in the ocean breeze as vendors shouted their wares. At its heart was the Pavilion; the tent towered overhead, with patterns of waves and tridents woven into the cloth, supported by a score of wooden columns. Inside, merchants bustled about, tending to displays of rich fabrics and foreign trinkets. Despite the nearby sea, the Pavilion counted no array of fish in its collection; it was the jewel of the Klerenmark, reserved only for the finest wares from the harbor.

Myra approached the trough at the market’s edge, kneeling to feed one of the butcher’s pigs, and she curled her nose at the smell of the livestock. She steeled herself as her heartbeat grew loud in her ears. Today, all her hopes lay with the young girl. Beneath her hood, she kept one eye on the harbor below, scanning for Rowena’s signal like a soldier on watch.

Glancing over her shoulder, she edged her way toward the porthouse nearby. It rested on the hill on the borders of the market, overlooking the harbor below. Myra peered through its latticed windows. Inside sat a shadowy figure, hunched over his desk—the wharfinger. Her nose caught the rich aroma of butter, wafting through the open door just around the corner, and her stomach clenched with hunger.

She was lost in a daydream of honey cakes and sugared tarts when she heard the cry of deckhands rise above the din of the Klerenmark. Beyond the steps leading to the harbor below, a scene had erupted on the docks. A barrel of ale had snapped its bonds, crashing onto the pier.

The wharfinger cursed under his breath and rose from his seat, causing the floorboards to creak as he lumbered toward the chaos. Myra peered around the corner, watching the man rush toward the commotion. As he shuffled out of sight, a smile crept onto her face. The foul child indeed, she thought as she slipped into the porthouse.

Atop the desk inside lay a silver plate of bread and pastries of all kinds. She paused for a moment before remembering herself. Shaking her head, Myra scanned the parchment scattered about the table. Buried under a letter to the quartermaster was the day’s ledger, freshly delivered.

She squinted at the ledger, searching frantically for her target. There were fewer ships than she had expected. No ships from Boot Island, she noted as her heart sank. Her fingers trembled as she traced the entries, and her eyes at last found the Golden Gull, a cog from Tyreneas scheduled for midday. She plucked the wharfinger's quill from its well and, steadying her hand, inscribed:

Carriage delayed—crew to be dismissed.

She stepped back, giving a final pass over her work. It was near-perfect, save for the smudge of her palm. She had always hated being left-handed.

The tumult from the dock grew softer until it could scarcely be heard—it was time to leave. It took all her strength not to reach for the tempting display still wafting up to her nose. She slipped from the porthouse as quietly as she had come, retreating into the bustling square.

A high-pitched whistle pierced through the noise, catching her attention. She turned to see the girl, her orange hair draped like a curtain over half her face, concealing her own brand beneath. Myra gave her an approving once-over but quickly averted her gaze to the sea of dark-haired heads that flooded the market. “We draw too much attention here,” she said, her voice low.

“Nobody saw me, I promise,” said Rowena, her eyes wide.

Myra gave her a measured look. “You did well, Ro. Now go and find an outlook.”

"Aye, m'lady."

Myra suppressed a sigh. “Enough of that. It's imperative we don't fail in our purpose here.”

“Oh, imperative, is it? Do use small words with me. I’m only a girl.”

A reprimand rose to Myra’s lips, but she let a smirk take its place. "Go," she said with a hushed laugh. "The others will arrive soon enough."

Ro extended her arms in a dramatic curtsy. With a playful twirl, she made for the cobblestone steps, stretching down to the harbor.

Myra did not follow. While the young girl’s face was known to some, hers was known to many more. She made instead for the jewel master's tent, a bowshot away from the porthouse. She traded dull remarks with the merchant while he polished his stones with a cloth of oiled leather. She cast anxious glances down at the harbor, grunting and nodding occasionally to keep the craftsman prattling on.

She watched as the porters unloaded their cogs below. Barrel and crate stacked high as the deckhands moved their loads onto the pier. The shifting shadows of the forenoon sun marked the passage of time, and she counted hundreds of ships coming and going along as many quays. None bearing the crest of the Tyrenean city.

At last, the Golden Gull slid into port.

And there, too, came the wharfinger, parchment in hand. From her outlook, she could see him on the docks below, locked in conversation with the captain of the Gull. The captain shook his head, and the wharfinger pointed insistently at the ledger. Finally, the captain’s shoulders slumped in resignation. With a motion of his hand, he signaled his crew to begin unloading the produce onto the planks. The wharfinger handed him a few coins.

Soon the cargo was stacked high. "Stow the lines. Sails ready!" shouted the bosun. The cog slid away from the deck, and with it, dozens of crewmen who would no longer be a cause for concern.

The wharfinger continued down the pier, tending to more arriving ships. Soon after, Myra watched as an aging shire came trotting down the road from the city proper. Hitched to the horse was a small wain, its wooden frame splintered. Wheels jolted over uneven cobblestones, their iron rims pitted. Its driver wore a high-necked gambeson, and over this, he draped a roughspun hooded cloak. A single guard followed closely behind; beneath his helmet, strands of pepper hair fell across his forehead. His ill-fitting steel armor clanked with every step.

Myra dismissed the jeweler with a nod and moved down the steps toward the dock with haste, as nimble as her namesake. With her hood pulled low, she pretended to inspect a row of fisher's nets hung out to dry, positioning herself closer to the exchange as the wagon reached its destination.

"You're late," said the wharfinger curtly. "What is the cause for delay?"

"Tried to send word ahead. Ran into trouble on the road," replied the driver, his voice affectedly low.

"Trouble on the road," the man echoed, his eyes narrowing. "What sort of trouble, exactly?"

"Redmarks, they're calling themselves," the driver replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Redmarks?" The wharfinger peered up at the driver, licking his lips. "I somewhat admire them. Still, they take their toll on my labors. The King will route them soon enough."

“Mayhaps,” replied the driver. “Word is they’re quite the cunning lot.”

“Mm,” mused the wharfinger with waning interest, his eyes returning to the parchment. He turned to face the deckhands. “You there! Get these crates loaded,” he barked, snapping his fingers.

The laborers loaded the cargo while the wharfinger scribbled away at his parchment. When the last crate was loaded, he turned to the driver. “There—it’s done. Now be quick about it! Regain the time we’ve lost here—I won’t have it said that Master Hendrik is a man of poor punctuality. What was your name again?”

The driver stammered.

“What’s this?" said the guard behind them. "The Feast is in less than a moonturn—why have we delayed?"

"All right then, move on move on!" said the wharfinger with a wave of his hand.

Myra exhaled sharply.

The driver nodded, and with a crack of the reins, the carriage started its journey toward the steep hill to the Klerenmark.

Myra slipped from her position among the fishermen, making her way back toward the market. The wagon had made little headway by the time she crested the hill. The nag strained against the weight of the wain, which groaned as it climbed.

She moved ahead, toward the Pavilion. Finding a spot behind the tent, Myra browsed the wares and waited, keeping a watchful eye on the path.

She was taken aback when she looked to her side to see Rowena. "How did you find me?"

"I chose a good outlook," said the girl with pride. Myra gave a smile, but her worries soon returned. If Ro could find her face among the crowd, it would not be long before they were discovered by their enemies.

At last the wagon came into view, and Myra motioned for Rowena to follow. They posed as a mother and daughter making their way through the crowd, leading the wain on the path out of the city. Myra looked around them from the corner of her eyes, alert to any threat.

Thorne, still armored in his stolen steel, trailed behind the cart like a rattling chain. Myra shivered at the sound, and she felt cold. She had heard her fill of iron links.

Finnec, for his part, started to hum. Myra found comfort in the young man's melodic tune, but his awareness left much to be desired.

“Stop that,” she heard Thorne say from behind. The humming ceased, somewhat to her displeasure.

Myra could no longer hear the clamor of the Klerenmark as they followed the way to the graveyard, beyond the northern borders of the city. Here, trees and tents thinned out, and soldiers became fewer, until they were no more. They passed through a valley, embraced on all sides by mountains that rose high above.

The mounds of the barrows emerged in the twilight. Myra's gaze lingered on the little hills. How many nobles are buried here, she wondered. How many of us? It felt, even to her, a cruel fate that the memory of all those who lay here had been buried with them, like a shameful secret. The crown had built new burial grounds closer to the city, leaving this place forgotten to all but a few.

When she was sure they were alone, Myra stopped. "Here's far enough. What have we to show for our trouble?"

Finnec turned in his seat to look at their laden cart. “I thought we’d be running empty-handed,” he said with a tone of jest.

Rowena frowned as she inspected the contents of the carriage. “That's it? There’s hardly anything here. How did we end up with so little?” she asked.

Myra stepped forward, placing a hand on Rowena’s shoulder. “There were fewer ships than we thought,” she said, her voice steady. She hoped they did not notice the flicker of worry in her eyes. “We’ll make do with what we have.”

Leaving the road behind, they continued along the remainder of their path. The party arrived at the base of a mountain. To Myra's left, hidden beneath a growth of vines and tangled underbrush, was the entrance to a cave in the mountainside. It was barely visible, concealed by nature’s hand.

A stone’s throw from the cavern was another entrance—a tunnel obscured by a mesh of leaves and old fishing nets. The River Stille was too shallow for the crownships, and so the tunnel was abandoned. The twin caves had served them well, the mountain's maw and the river's reach.

Myra turned to Thorne and Finnec, her expression firm. “Take the cart and the cargo and start unloading in the tunnel,” she said.

“We’re not bringing these inside?” Thorne asked, a challenge in his tone as he cocked his head toward the loot in front of him.

Not if we’re to feed the Willowfort, she thought. “Eamon will return soon. He’ll decide the share.”

“How many ways can there be to share a single crate of scraps?” Finnec said with a laugh.

Myra glared at him, and he relented. The two men moved to follow her orders, while she made for the cave entrance with Rowena. Passing through the wall of vines, Myra took the torch from within the cave's mouth, and Ro retrieved a tinderbox from her pocket. Striking flint against steel, Ro held the flame to the torch, lighting it aglow. Myra glanced at her companion, who looked back at her with determined eyes.

They ventured into the Ondergrund, the air growing cooler as they walked. Myra led Ro through the narrow passageways of the catacombs. Moss and fungi clung to the damp walls, and the air smelled of moist soil. Their footsteps echoed as they delved deeper into the earth.

Small alcoves lined the passageways, filled with crude wooden shelves holding balms, stale bread, and toys for the children. They passed by larger chambers where groups of Redmarks huddled around small braziers. Upon seeing Myra, their expressions softened. She returned their looks of hope with her own. Finally, the passageways began to widen.

The Onderhall emerged from the darkness. Its walls soared upwards, meeting in a domed ceiling that seemed to touch the godsrealm. Its pillars were the stonemasons' greatest feat, carved a half-century ago for Queen Leonora, who built the great amphitheater for the performers she so loved. The crown had no time for such frivolity now. The columns were adorned with heavy crimson tapestries, their thick fabric sure to choke any sound that dared escape the chamber. Her father’s banners shown vividly against the darkness, as if set ablaze by the light. The sigil would soon be hers, the gold hand and the red scar.

The ground was a mosaic of polished stone, each piece reflecting the golden light of the braziers. Upon the walls, shadows danced in performance. Row upon row of stone benches circled the central stage, where a fire pit burned with a steady, comforting glow.

She shut her eyes. “Call the Onderaad,” she said as she composed herself.

Rowena stepped forward, her hand reaching for a smooth, black stone of obsidian on the ground. She lifted the shimmering stone and began to tap it rhythmically against the walls, a ripple of sound carving paths through the silence.

Myra motioned to the two guards standing by the great pit, who fed the flame with fresh logs and stoked it until the fire roared to life.

From the dimly lit passages, the Redmarks began to stir. Like a slow-moving tide of blood, they descended toward the Onderhall.

Myra surveyed the assembly, and felt her heart ache. There were less than a hundred faces left before her. The few pairs of eyes she met were weary. Finding her courage, she spoke.

"Brothers and sister of the Onderaad," she began, "A small victory is ours this day. Waiting just outside is the crown's shipment from Tyreneas, fresh produce from the sunlit fields." A wave of hushed voices washed through the crowd.

The seamstress stepped forward. Her face, weary like the others, managed a smile. "Daughter of the Good Captain," she began, "our faith is rewarded. We are grateful for your efforts, but my son lingers on the needle's edge, hunger no longer a stranger but a familiar face. Begging your pardon, but I must ask—where are the spoils?” The woman wrung her hands.

From the darkness, Myra felt eyes on her. “Eamon will apportion the crop,” she said, her tone careful. “We must be sparing with our resources, or we're not like to last the winter. We will trust his judgment, as we have done many times before.” She nodded, hoping others would do the same.

Murmurs of dissent rippled through the crowd. Her father's presence was more intimidating than his name alone.

“What of Dun Moeras?” a young man called out. “What news from the fortress?”

“The captain will return tonight,” she assured them. “And with him, news of the Willowfort. For now, we must be patient.”

"Indolence!" shouted a voice from the black. The seamstress spoke again. "My lady, we cannot do nothing until the larders are bare and death is at our doorstep."

Myra felt her control of the floor slipping from her grasp. The quiet murmurs grew louder as the voices grew restless. Just as she feared she might lose the crowd entirely, a rhythmic tapping echoed through the Onderhall once more. Finnec emerged on the steps to the chamber, clacking his stone against the walls; Thorne followed closely behind.

"Clear the way!" shouted Finnec, his voice cutting through the unrest like a blade. “Sea Goats returning!”

Myra felt a wave of relief wash over her, but the undertow brought a new feeling of unease at the return of the Captain.

Her father and his Goats, a burly crew, descended on the amphitheater with their usual swagger. Even at seventy and one, the graying man led the company with poise, his silver head held high as he walked down the steps. The jingle of gold rings and jeweled bracelets announced his coming, each piece reflecting the light in myriad directions. Tonight, her father wore his fine silk doublet, jade in color and embroidered with golden and black threads. He parted the sea of bodies, a gleaming emerald emerging from the red tide.

The Goats followed in tow, carrying crates that seemed small in their massive hands. Her crates. Her brow furrowed in confusion as she watched them. In truth, she hadn’t expected this shipment to feed the hall.

The Goats reached the pit and began to unload the shipment. Her father took his place beside her. In front of her, in truth. His shadow devoured hers on the polished stone beneath them as he turned to face the sea.

“My faithful Onderaad," he bellowed, his voice echoing throughout the cavern. "This eve, hunger will be but a memory! This eve, we feast, and you shall want for nothing!” The declaration was met with a roar of approval, the Onderhall erupting into gay celebration.

With his left hand on the sword at his side, the Bilgerat lifted his right, and a hush fell over the crowd. "Barend will help you. Form a line, and savor the spoils won by my daughter!" The Captain's first mate sat upon the crates, his massive arms extended to sell the performance.

The current flowed in toward the pit, and the Captain leaned in to whisper in her ear. "We need to talk." His eyes were dark.

Myra followed him to the alcove behind the amphitheater, enshrouded by scarlet curtains. A rather dark office waited inside, anchored with a large, circular stone bench, a stone chair behind. Upon the bench lay a map of their country, its edges curled and worn from use. Near the map lay a set of compasses, a quill and inkwell, and several rolled parchments secured with wax seals. The scent of old paper and ink hung heavily in the air, together with the faint aroma of burning oil from the flicking lantern in the corner.

Eamon took his place on the stone chair, a fitting throne for the King of the Ondergrund. “Take a seat, my daughter,” he said, motioning to one of the wooden chairs opposite him. The chair creaked as she sat.

"What news of the fortress, my lord?" she asked.

"None of that, my love. It's just us."

"Of course, father."

"You did good work with the Onderaad. It's never easy to calm a pack of hounds, once they're starving."

"They'd be more like to come to heel if you wouldn't cut the legs of their mistress."

"How do you mean? They know the hand that feeds them."

"Do they?"

He considered this a moment, stroking his beard. "Stealing the carriage was a fine idea. Our people reap what you've sown."

"There should've been more. There were fewer ships than I expected."

"It will be enough. I'll send Barend and the Goats on the 'morn to retrieve the provisions we recovered on the Ram."

"Recovered? Father, why have the crownships not returned from the island?"

His face was drawn. He sighed, then rose to retrieve a pitcher of darkwine from a shelf of stone, pouring deep into two cups. The substance was as red as the weavings adorning their chamber. "Drink," he said, holding out a tarnished chalice.

"Father, what's happened?"

He urged the cup towards her. "Drink."

She took the chalice and drank deep from her cup, wiping her chin as a sanguine drop fell to the floor.

Her father watched her. When he seemed satisfied she had drunk enough, he started. "Dun Moeras is no more," he said softly. "We found the fortress destroyed, its walls reduced to stones scattered across the battlefield. The crown burned the tents to ash."

She felt dizzy, the room spinning around her. "And the marks stationed there?"

He gave a quick shake of his head.

"And the islefolk? What of the people of Willowdale?" she asked, panic rising in her voice.

"They razed the village to the ground, and salted the fields. They left none alive."

His words were daggers. She stood abruptly.

"Steady now," said the Captain, rising from his chair and reaching out to her.

She staggered, catching herself with a hand on the cold stone wall. "And Sophine?" she asked, her eyes on the floor, unable to meet Eamon's gaze.

"My dear, sweet daughter. We did not find the girl's body."

Her breath came in ragged gasps.

Her father stepped closer, his voice trembling. "I share in your grief, my love. I know the girl was precious to you."

"You don't understand," she said. "Sophine had the stone."